Hear hear, Jerry. Much more auspicious than the 666th post. While we are on the subject of sequential numbering (gee, are we on that subject?) my stream-of-consciousness hath taken me to my very favorite winner of the Bullwer-Lytton bad fiction contest for the worst opening sentence of a hypothetical novel:

She wasn't really my type, a hard-looking but untalented reporter from the local cat box liner, but the first second that the third-rate representative of the fourth estate cracked open a new fifth of old Scotch, my sixth sense said seventh heaven was as close as an eighth note from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, so, nervous as a tenth grader drowning in eleventh-hour cramming for a physics exam, I swept her into my longing arms, and, humming "The Twelfth of Never," I got lucky on Friday the thirteenth.

--Wm. W. "Buddy" Ocheltree, Port Townsend, Washington (1993 grand prize winner)